Golden Dust
by opera.74
Summary: What would happen if Rumpelstiltskin and Belle realized their feelings towards each other before she met the Queen and was advised to break his curse? A bit of AU version.


GOLDEN DUST

He has grown into a habit of watching her sleep. It started innocently enough – accidentally, even. She cried as she was left alone in her cell for the first few nights, and the sound of her sobbing tore at his heart; he knew he was to blame – for taking her from her father's castle in such an abrupt manner, for forcing her into a deal of eternal loyalty, the full significance of which she couldn't understand, for treating her with sneering contempt that she did not deserve. Yet he also knew that he had no choice but to take her: the moment his gaze fell upon her face, the moment he heard her voice, husky with hidden fear, trembling with determination to be heroic and useful, the moment her beauty shone upon him, obliterating everything he saw before in his over-long life; the moment he saw her, he knew he had to have her. He collected precious and magical things – he himself created them. Yet here, in this innocent young girl, he beheld a vessel of magic beyond anything he ever encountered, beyond anything anyone could ever conjure; a treasure without price; a beauty without rival. And there was more to it, of course – the shock and the awe he felt as he watched her was beyond magician's and collector's appreciation of the unique find. The moment he saw her, the moment he looked into her eyes, a thought pierced him – no, not a thought, an epiphany: magical enlightening, forceful like a strike of a real lightning; his mind, for an instant, filled with blinding light, and it seemed as if a voice sounded in his heart, saying, simply: 'It's Her'. This needed no explanation; he was told, by forces greater than he'd ever possess, that this girl was, in fact, the woman he had sought all his life. His one and only true love. A person who would give him the key to understanding the most powerful magic in the world – the one that always eluded him, for he never loved and never felt loved, and therefore could not master the magic of love. A person who would, if fate would be kind, give him one thing he always thought unthinkable for himself – personal happiness.

So of course he had to take her with him, even if to do that he had to invent the least plausible of all excuses; a caretaker for his estate, indeed! Yet, once she was with him, once they were alone in the dark interior of his carriage, reality struck him; he looked at her confused and scared face, he thought of his life, ridden with complications and ruled by darkness, and saw clearly that this youthful and bright creature had no place by his side. She would never fit; she would never be comfortable; she would never even begin to understand what he is, and he would never find the courage to tell her – for fear of soiling her, for fear of being rejected, for fear of being destroyed by her light.

So he took her with him, but tried to distance himself from her. Hence the sneers, the contempt, and the cell, and her bitter lonely tears. Yet of course, every night as she was locked in her dungeon, he could not simply walk away from the heavy oak door. He would stand there, aching, listening to her sobs, loud at first and gradually getting quieter; and then, as her tears would subside, listening to her sleeping breathing. Listening, and trying to imagine how she looks as she lays there on her bed of straw.

One night, as he stood and listened, she seemed too quiet; her breathing was inaudible, and he was struck with irrational fear for her. He suddenly remembered the nights he spent by his son's crib, watching him, unable to sleep, seized with horror least the quiet sound of the child's breathing would stop – a horror that every parent knows and lives with constantly. He could not hear her breathing, and he panicked; he had to check if she was all right. So he walked into her cell – through the wall, he couldn't be bothered with unlocking doors in his irrational anguish – and he leaned towards her sleeping form, trying to catch her breathing.

She was all right, of course, she was perfectly fine – she slept peacefully, her lips slightly parted, her eyelashes casting a shadow on her gently flushed cheeks, her auburn hair tousled, a couple of straws caught in it, her breasts softly heaving. He was transfixed by her beauty; he was enchanted by her peace. He was suddenly transported back into his past, back into the time, so long gone, when he leaned over his son in his sleep, and caught a scent – an incredibly touching and unique sweet milky scent a young child has; scent of youth, innocence, promise; scent of fragility; scent of miracle. He was moved to the point of tears; his breath caught, and he had to stop himself from touching her – from stroking her hair, as he used to stroke his son's hair when he was little. He wanted to lean closer still, and kiss her brow, to inhale the sweetness of her skin and hair. Instead, he gave her one last look and retreated.

He knew he must not ever return – he must never come into her chamber again, unknown to her. Yet he knew that he would never be able to resist the temptation to witness the miracle of a sleeping child, which she brought back into his life.

And that's what it was, at first – or so he told himself; a wish to glimpse a truly peaceful thing, to soothe his heart with an image of something sweet and lovely. Nothing more – just a wish to look at someone sleeping softly, a wish natural enough in a man who had not slept normally for decades. He indulged in this wish, night after night. And for a while he somehow managed to separate his innocent nighttime stalking with turmoil of desires she woke in him in daytime. During the day, as he watched her go around the castle performing her household chores, he let his imagination roam. He would let himself notice her beauty, and be stirred and disturbed by it; he would day-dream about touching her, kissing her, holding her close to him; imagine looking into her eyes and seeing in them a glow of returned affection. The fact that she seemed completely unabashed by his presence, unintimidated by his malevolent actions and gloomy moods, did not help. She was a bit apprehensive of him for the first day or two – she seemed to be feeling her way around him. After that, she relaxed; most of the time she looked at him with a secret smile; she was perfectly polite, yet somehow playful; his most drastic pranks deserved but a raised eyebrow. She seemed to see in him something that left him powerless to scare her; she seemed to know about him something that he didn't know about himself. And that, in turn, scared him: she seemed to possess some secret power over him – with one look, she could turn his heart over and reduce it to ashes.

So they danced around each other, obviously attracted, painfully unable to admit it; forcefully drawn to each other, yet separated by so many unspoken and obvious obstacles.

And then came a day when they hunted a thief who tried to steal a magic wand, and in the end of this hunt, as he spared the thief's life, she suddenly made a move; with blind rashness of youth she stepped forward and embraced him, accessing her right to do it, her right to judge and reward him, acknowledging the fact that, while he could call himself her 'master' all he pleased, she was the one with the real power, and he would always bow to her. He must have yearned for her dominion – his joy at her embrace and all it signified was immense. He did try to maintain his position, he did try to be stern as he commandeered her to clean the library, but they both knew how things really stood between them, from now on. She smiled at his half-hearted attempts to be strict and, as she said good-night and thanked him for his generous gift, she patted his hand with such unreserved affection, with such easy warmth, with such complete confidence in their... compatibility, that his heart exploded.

That night, he did not go into her room, magically changed from the cell into a comfortable, though humble, chamber, to watch her sleep. He was too exited for that – he couldn't trust himself. Instead, he went straight into his own room, and sat on the bed, trembling with joy, reliving their touches, her looks, her glowing admiration, her kind and teasing smiles, the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair as they pressed to his cheek, the sweetness of her scent, the softness of her skin as her small hand touched his green leathery paw – confidently, as if it was a human hand. He touched himself where she touched him; he took off his clothes and touched himself where he wanted her to touch him; he lived alone through the passion and joy he wanted to feel with her. And, when everything was over and he lay on his bed, breathing shallowly, his eyes unfocused, his body stained with solitary passion, instead of shame in his indulgence he felt lighthearted, fearless glory. Giving in to his lonely longing he understood, within his heart of hearts, that his attraction to the girl was not just a whim or a passionate obsession; it was love. He loved her, in each and every sense of the word, and this revelation exhilarated him.

He loved her, and that meant he was still human. He loved her, and that meant there was still hope for him. He loved her, and that meant that the voice he heard in his heart the moment he set eyes on her, the voice he tried to silence, for it spoke of light and hope, and he had long despaired in them, was right, after all: there was a chance for happiness for him, somewhere in the pattern on the universe. He could love; he could have a happy ending.

He fell asleep naked on top of his coverlet, feeling happy and hopeful and weightless as a child; he was a little boy again, a happy boy untouched by magic and suffering. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, and woke in the morning with spring in his heart.

Their lives changed since that day. He stopped trying to distance himself from her – he sought her company. He wanted to spend as much time with her as he could; he talked to her, he smiled at her, he made silly quips, he showed her innocent magical tricks. And he was rewarded – she seemed happy to be with him, she talked to him, she smiled back, she laughed at his jokes, and she watched his tricks in awe – almost a child herself, she was so easily trilled. She was so bright and youthful that he forgot his age, and his darkness. There was still a hundred things unspoken and unresolved between them but, in the blindness of his love, he forgot about them; he felt irrationally sure that wrongs would right themselves, somehow, in due time.

The loveliest, happiest moments of his life were spent with her, in this innocent floating calm, as they sat together in the library after a long day, she with her book or her sewing, he at his spinning wheel, talking quietly of nothing important or sharing comfortable silence. Every second was golden – he could almost hear a tingle of golden dust falling on the floor of heaven as seconds slipped away.

Yet all this time, his passion for her grew. It built up with every innocent touch, with every playful smile, with every sign of her affection and interest. His heart was full of her, and his body ached for her. To watch her move around the room, turning towards him now and then, smiling, wrinkling her nose, furrowing her brow in thought, tossing her hair, to watch her bite her nail absentmindedly (her lips closing over the tip of her finger, as his might, oh sweet, delirious thought!), to watch a thin film of perspiration on her upper lip, her fluttering eyelashes, so long and dark and silky, to watch her slender neck, and small curls behind her ears, to watch her bosom move as she breathed, to catch her scent as she passed him, to hear her voice call his name... He had never knew a torture so grueling, or a joy so exquisite.

So, when he came to watch her sleep, as he still had to, he no longer dwelled on her innocence as he beheld her reposed body. He came to drink her in unreservedly – to watch her uninhibited, without a risk of being caught staring. He would not come close to her bed – not any more. He stood by the wall, hardly breathing, looking at her, absorbing everything about her, imprinting every little detail of her sleeping body into his mind, so that he could come back to his room, and prostate himself on his bed, and lose himself in a lustful dream of having her body by his side, in his bed, in his embrace, open for him.

And then came a day when, trying to take off the curtains in the living room to wash them, she tugged at the railing too hard, and fell from the ladder – straight into his arms. And reality, tangible physical reality of holding her body close to his overwhelmed him; he lost his breath, his knees nearly buckled, and he knew he was staring at her, at her face, at her breasts, which were suddenly so unimaginably close to his lips, and that this staring was embarrassing for both of them, yet he could not take his eyes off her. It was one thing to imagine holding her, feeling her warmth and softness; it was another thing altogether to actually touch her, to bear her weight, slight as it was, to feel the softness of her thighs with one hand, and the fragility of her ribs with another, to survive the pressure of her breasts against his chest, the touch of her slightly sweaty palm against his neck as she clutched at him, to drown in her smiling eyes, holding his stunned gaze. She looked flustered, yet happily exited, as if she felt that to rest in his arms, embracing his neck, is a completely right and natural thing for her, and her relaxed ease went straight into his head, as strong wine would, for at that moment he felt that there were no obstacles between them – that nothing could stop them from coming together in an even closer embrace. It took all his will-power and self-control not to lean closer to her face, and kiss her; her lips were so inviting, so wet, just inches away from his. She seemed to be holding her breath, almost as if she was expecting his kiss. Yet he got hold of himself – with supreme effort of will he let her go, he put her on the floor and walked away from the room, feeling her smiling gaze on his back, hearing her happy humming as she went back to work. He had to get hold of himself – he had to let her go – he had to resist the yearning to kiss her; for, if he didn't, he would not have been able to stop. He would have had her, then and there, on the floor, on the sunlit carpet, among the dusty fallen curtains, pulling her skirts upward to expose her thighs, tearing at her chemise with his teeth to reach her breasts, not bothering to undress her, not bothering to take off his boots.

He went into his room on trembling legs, locked himself in and, for the first time since he knew her and loved her, he brought himself to release, thinking of her, in day-time, blushing at the cruelty of sunlight reflecting upon his naked gilded skin, yet unable to stop himself: he had to get some respite from tension, for otherwise he would not have been able to walk and talk and think straight. When all was done, he did not so much feel ashamed of himself, but rather stunned. The violence of his need, the intensity of his desire shocked him. He was also frightened by his own gullibility; he knew she cannot feel about him the way he felt about her, yet he was so ready to believe in her desire, in her returned affection.

He knew he must control himself better from now on – he knew he should stay away from her. It would not do to scare her – it would not do to presume upon her politeness – it would not do to jump at her next time she warmly smiled at him. And he did stay away from her, for the rest of the day. But, as night descended, he became restless. He needed to see her – to hear her voice, even in some very casual conversation; he needed to be reassured by her smiles that all was well between them, that she did not notice his tension, or simply ignored it in her great kindness; he needed to see his reflection in her eyes to know that he existed.

Yet when having collected himself, and feeling ridiculous in the fresh clothes he had to put on after his afternoon escapade, he went down to seek her, it was already too late; night descended upon the castle, and she has gone to bed, having left him cold supper on the dining-room table: she must have thought he was busy with something and didn't want to disturb him. Perhaps she was right – he was indeed busy, eating his heart out, tormented by self-loathing, doubts, hopes and desires, and God knows how he would have reacted if she did knock at his door while he was at it.

Yes, she was right to retreat to bed without facing him again, but his situation was all the more difficult for it. She was gone, so he was bereft of a chance to calm himself with normal conversation with her. She was gone, she went to sleep, and he knew, all too well, how beguiling she looks as she rests at night. Hovering uncertainly in the dining-room, his supper untouched, he could just picture her in her bed – lovely face in profile against the pillow, small hand resting on the breast, barely covered with a blanket, and moving up and down, gently, with every breath.

He had to close his eyes, and swallow. He had to stop that, he knew, otherwise he'd do something rash and ill-judged – something that he'd regret bitterly.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself in her room, staring at the very sight he had just been imagining.

He did not venture to analyze by what leap of deluded willpower he got there. He did not have time for that, for he was immediately distracted and absorbed by what he saw before him.

The reality of her was so much more enchanting and seductive than his ravings.

The room was full of moonlight, pale and silvery-blue, and in this delicate glow the girl looked pristine – too fragile, too precious, too pure to ever, ever be touched by human hand, let alone his dark clawed fingers. Her white skin looked almost translucent, her hair very dark against white linen of her pillow, her lips lilac in the night light, shadows from her eyelashes deep and velvety. Her beauty was exquisite; her cold paleness almost frightening, for sleeping deeply in this shimmering moonlit she looked like a dead princess cursed into a magical slumber, breakable only with a kiss born out of true love. His heart filled with anguish and tenderness, his body was torn with contrasting impulses. He knew he had to get away, for he had no right to be here, beside her. Yet he could not tear himself away from her. His eyes filled with tears at her fragility, and at the total impossibility of his love for her; looking at her purity now, how could he ever dream of his love being returned and consummated? He was all darkness while she was all light, even if the cold light of the moon. He would not ever touch her – he just wouldn't dare. Yet, as a moth to a flame, he was drawn to her light. He wanted to touch her – he needed it, as if his life depended on pressing his skin to hers, on reassuring himself of her reality – now, when she looked so ephemeral. And, his madness whispered to him, perhaps she needed his touch – his presence – his love? She was so alone, his sleeping beauty, so isolated from the world – taken from her family, bounded to him, separated from the world by her peculiar mind and rebellious soul. Who would wake her from magical slumber, if ever she fell under the spell? Who would save her? Who would show her that she was not alone? Who would be there for her if not he – a man whose heart belonged to her?

His hand moved as on its' own volition as he reached to touch her – to stroke her hair, to run his knuckles across her cheek; softly, holding his breath, mortally afraid to disturb her, yet unable to resist the temptation. Yet he never completed his intended action for, as his hand stretched over the sleeping girl, he suddenly saw its' shadow: dark, hovering, dense, clawed fingers elongated and curling, it was creeping upon the milky-white skin of the girl's exposed throat, as if ready to strangle her. He froze, shocked. There could be no picture more telling, no image more striking of just how impossible any union between them was than his shadow upon her. Oh yes, she could be kind to him – she could smile at him and even hug him with affection and gratitude. But there was nothing to it – there was nowhere for them to go together. There was no way in which they could be together – no way in which his reptilian body would ever truly touch hers.

He jerked his hand away from her, as if scalded, and sunk to his knees by her bedside, burying his face in his palms, racked with dry silent sobs, crushed by the black sadness that descended on him. Never in all his over-long life had he felt as dark, as alone and as desolate as he felt then, crouching by the bed of the woman he loved, caught in the pool of cold moonlight.

He knew he must take himself away from the girl's life now – he knew he must put some distance between them. He would have to let her go – it was the only way. Tomorrow he'd do it. Tomorrow he'd send her away to the village under some pretense – to fetch him some straw, for instance – and he'd tell her expressly not to come back. Hopefully, she would leave. Hopefully, he hadn't soiled her life and poisoned her soul with his dark influence. Of course he didn't. She barely had time to know him.

Drawing strength in this hope and in his resolve to do the right thing, he lifted his face and fixed his gaze upon her sleeping form for one last time – wishing this moment to stretch forever, wishing his memory to be boundless, able to take in every detail of her looks and hold them forever in his mind: every eyelash, every crack on her lips, every hair on her head; the silver curve of her moonlit collar-bone, the warm shade on her rounded breast. One second, just one second more he'd let himself stay here, drinking in her beauty. One second, just one second more and he'd be gone.

And then, as he gathered the strength to tear his eyes from her and leave the room, she sighed, in her sleep, and smiled. And then she spoke his name.

He froze, again, not fully believing what he'd heard. He strained his ears, wishing to hear more – she seemed to whisper something incomprehensible – and leaned closer to her. And, as he let his hand rest on the side of the bed to support himself, she moved – her hand slid from under the cover, and her fingers clasped his hand as she spoke his name again, and smiled, again.

His heart stopped, and stood still for one endless second, and then lurched, clashing against his ribcage, as if trying to crush through it as it went out to her. And then his heart melted inside him, turned into liquid and swelled in his chest, turning him hot and then instantly cold, and then hot again, flushing his cheeks, and welling in his eyes as tears of wonderment and awe.

She was dreaming of him. She was dreaming of him, and she said his name, and she smiled.

Of course, it might have meant nothing – most probably it meant nothing. But the rash of happiness filling his soul was uncontrollable – it was beyond rational thought and reasoning, it was joy, pure and simple, and tenderness immense and overwhelming. He could not stop himself – even if he was aware of his actions, and he wasn't, still he wouldn't have been able to stop himself – it was beyond human willpower to stop as he leaned closer, and kissed her brow, whispering: 'Belle. My darling Belle'.

Without waking, she turned her head, pressing her cheek to his, and uttered a soft murmur, and her free hand went up to his hair.

His heart sang at the pain and sweetness of her unconscious caress.

And then, with a start, she woke up; her eyes flew open, and he found himself meeting her surprised, uncomprehending stare. Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, she still clasped his hand, and his other hand was gently cupping her face.

He knew he must look as shocked to her as she looked to him. He was shocked – caught red-handed at something unexpected, disturbing, daring and way, way too intimate.

He was ready for anything, now – for any sort of reaction. He expected her to scream, to push him away, to express her just indignation at his presence – at his unpardonable closeness. But he was not ready for the sudden gleam of light in her eyes, and for her lips pouting in a gentle 'oh', and for her soft whisper:

'You are here'. She stopped, unsure of her voice and words. 'You really are here. I was… I was dreaming…'

She blushed – deeply, the color rising to her cheeks visible even in the silver darkness of the moonlit room. But still she did not let go of his hand, and still she pressed her palm to his cheek.

She must have been dreaming about him.

His mind reeled. Why wasn't she screaming, or crying, or telling him to go – why wasn't she even surprised to find him here? Perhaps her mind was still clouded with dreams?

She smiled, shyly, and bit her lip. 'It felt so real'.

She was referring to her dream, and his breath caught. What was she dreaming of, if his presence by her bedside felt real – if to find him indeed by her bed seemed natural? What was she dreaming of, if she didn't even question his presence in her bedroom? To wake up and find him leaning over her prior to a kiss seemed to her natural; to be so close to him in the middle of the night seemed to her natural. And, just because she excluded calm and ease, all that suddenly felt natural for him, too. He was not intruding upon her. He was... expected.

She wanted him here. She wanted to be close to him.

It felt magical – the moment felt magical, and for once he was not able to control magic around him in any way, and didn't want to. She may have dreamed about him, but he was living in a dream right now. He was caught in the moment, speechless and nearly breathless as, overcome by tenderness and gratitude he closed his eyes, and moved his head a fraction, leaning into her hand, pressing his face to her skin, kissing her palm.

Her breathing quickened. 'Did you call me 'your darling', or did I dream that?..' Her voice sounded uncertain yet... hopeful and, opening his eyes and glancing at her eager youthful face, he was lost for words. Where were his easy quips and light banter now, when he needed them most? His mouth was dry, his tongue wouldn't move – he was unable to speak.

He nodded, and knew it to be inadequate. He cleared his throat, and managed a whisper.

'Yes', he said. 'I did'. His voice sounded small and weak.

She gave him a wide, happy smile. 'I am glad'.

Just as simple as that. All his torments, doubts, hesitant convoluted plans to approach the subject of his feelings for her – resolved in one instant. 'Yes, I called you 'my darling'. – 'I am glad'. Just one phrase, one smile – and things between them stood suddenly and wonderfully clear. They say that youth is rash, troubled, torn with complicated emotions. Yet here he was, old and wise, defeated by her wonderful simplicity, disarmed by her trusting kindness.

His hand was still cupping her face, and he gently stroked her cheek with his thumb, bringing on another deep blush, making her bite her lip again. His touch pleased her – it exited her; she found him appealing – attractive. It was unbelievable. It was a miracle. It made him feel glorious, omnipotent, dizzy and giddy with happiness and want, at once content and full of yearning. Suddenly everything he ever dreamed of regarding her seemed possible. He could caress her skin, he could press his face to her neck and inhale her scent; he could kiss her. He could do it right now.

And he did. Slowly, careful not to break the mood, he leaned even closer to her, and his lips touched hers – uncertainly, hesitantly, almost shyly. And then her lips moved, and opened for him, and he heard her happy sigh, and felt it on his lips. His tongue rubbed against her teeth, and she opened her mouth wider. Her tongue darted into his mouth, exploring, and touched his tongue, and desire shook him with blazing intensity, blinded him, made him lose himself. There was nothing of him left but the skin to touch her skin, the heart to flutter, matching her wildly beating heart, the breath to mingle with hers.

He deepened the kiss, he cupped her face with both hands, pressed his palms to her neck, lifting her up from the pillow and closer to him. She sat straight, eagerly, her hands locking behind his head, fingers stroking the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. Her blanket fell away, exposing her slender body, dressed in a simple white nightgown. It slid down one of her shoulders, baring her breast – pale, rounded, with a small dark nipple hardening at the coolness of night air. It was beyond human power to resist the temptation to touch it and, as his fingers stroke her tender skin, she gasped, welcoming new sensations. And her gasp, in turn, fuelled his need, making him daring and bold, prompting him to touch her other breast through the dress, kneading the nipple still hidden from his view, and he knew at once he had to see what he touched, and he reached to pull her gown down, exposing her upper body to his ravenous eyes and hands. She did not object – she shivered, briefly, but he felt it to be from excitement, not out of fear or revulsion.

She fell back on her pillow, letting him run his hands across her naked skin, closing her eyes, listening to her own body as it woke up to feelings hitherto unknown to it. She liked what she felt, and seemed to want more. She lifted her arms, pressing her breasts into his palms, making him miss a heartbeat, and put her hands on his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, opening the collar, reaching for his skin, brows furrowed in frustration as she fought with frills and buttons. She wanted to touch him, it seemed, and he obliged – he tore his shirt away, leaving himself half-naked before her. And the moment he bared for her, she let her palms caress his skin, running across his chest, up his arms, across his back, fingers tracing his spine, palms coming to rest at the small of his back as she embraced him.

His heart beat wildly, as if it would break his chest. And then she kissed his shoulder, pressing herself to him, her breasts flat against his chest, and his mind exploded. He could not, would not stop now – he was beyond control, consciousness, or reasoning; he was beyond humanity, turned into a beast, into a wild thing of the woods, raw and intense, feeling his way across her body by touch and taste and smell, literally blind with desire. She might have been stunned, might have been frightened by his intensity – he would not know; he was unable to notice, unable to control himself in any way.

She was stunned, indeed – she felt caught in a whirlwind, taken over with torrent of passion, bowed over by the wave of his extreme emotion – carried away with it. Who would have thought that her snappish, remote and ironic master would behave like that – who would have thought that his slender graceful form would contain so much fire and thunder. She always thought, as she looked at him, first in amazement and later with admiration, that he looked like a reptile – a lizard, perhaps. Reptiles are cold – their blood runs slowly, their eyes hardly blink, their hide is harsh. Yet here he was, uninhibited, wild, raw, insistent, yet tender, overwhelmingly tender, assaulting and caressing, bathing her in his warmth, burning her with his intensity, and his blood boiled, heating hers, and his eyes looked dark and human, and his skin, despite its' gilded dusting, was soft.

She had long since came to consider him beautiful, in his own alien way; she had read too many books to be intimidated by somebody being green and clawed – she knew there were places in the world were people had black skin and pink palms and lips perpetually swelled, as if bitten by bees. So what if he was green, and his eyes were filmed over like eyes of a snake? He was beautiful, still, with his alert, mobile body, his dancer's step, his alluring manner, with his precise elegant gestures, with his fine aquiline features, his flaring nostrils, his long eyelashes, expressive lips, his glistening locks and his amazingly strange skin, dark and green, with specks of gold glowing on it like magical freckles. He looked... exotic, like a strange animal; he looked precious, like a mysterious object found on some remote shore, in a torch-lit cave; perhaps if one rubbed him, a genie would appear to grant her three wishes. She was fascinated by him, drawn to his peculiar looks as well as to his intricate mind. Everything about him was strange and elegant and... forbidding; it felt daring to touch his leathery clawed hands, daring to contemplate running her hand through his mossy hair, daring to muse whenever his golden skin would feel soft to the touch.

She used to blush and castigate herself for having such thoughts; she thought that perhaps something was wrong with her if she dreamed about her master in such unbecoming manner. Yet she could not help it; ever since the day when the thief attacked him, and she feared for his life, she knew she cared for him. Ever since that moment in the woods when she embraced him in gratitude, she knew she liked being in his arms. Ever since that moment when she touched his hand in the library she could not forget the warmth of his skin, and her palm tingled sweetly in remembrance of this touch and in anticipation of the next. Ever since the morning when, exploring the castle on her own, she wandered into his bedroom and found him sleeping on top of his bed naked, and stood stunned, admiring his heraldic beastly beauty, pondering on his perfection and strangeness as one would with a wild animal in a menagerie, and then escaped from the room as he started to wake up; ever since that morning her mind kept returning, unbidden, to this moment of escape and played out a different scenario. What if she did not run away, but stayed in the room? What if he turned over, exposing his full nakedness to her, and reached for her, taking her hand with his taloned fingers and pulling her down on the bed? She blushed violently every time the thought came back; she asked herself what's wrong with her if she has such weird and wild ideas. She told herself sternly that her master gave her no provocation, not even a hint of his interest. Yet the thought came back again and again. It came back today, as she fell from the ladder into his arms and felt she wanted to stay there forever. It came back tonight, as she was sleeping – as he woke her up with his shy caress, she was dreaming of him – seeing him, in her mind's eyes, turning to her, giving her a slow smile, taking her hand into his, stretching on the bed naked, skin glistening in the morning sun.

And here he was, stretching on the bed with her, naked. There were no slow smiles – everything was too intense for smiles. Yet it still felt... right. She did not think that things between them would happen like that; she did not really think they would happen at all. Yet now, as they rapidly approached the point of no return, she felt no anguish or hesitation. She had a feeling of belonging – with this man, with this moment, with their common fate. Some part of her brain, a tiny rational part still resisted, still whispered to her that she was doing something rash, stupid, unbecoming; that she was living out the oldest and ugliest of stories – of a kidnapped girl falling for her captor, letting him do what he pleased with her. But that small voice of reason was drowned in emotions, outshone by her instinctive conviction that their story was something different altogether. She did not feel a victim to her dark master's powers – she felt like his savior, his way towards light and hope, his key to breaking the bleak misery, which hung around him all the time despite his prattling and his giggles; in truth, the prattling and the giggles actually underlined the gloom, making it more obvious. Her master was deeply unhappy, he was troubled with something, and her heart told her, again and again, that she could change that – she could help him. Of course there are stories about that, too – about determined strong-willed girls falling for brooding dark strangers, believing their past could be obliterated, their hearts changed for the better. But then, she did not read those stories, for they were not written yet – her story with him was the first of its' kind.

'He hasn't even told you he loved you!' – screamed the rational part of her, in the last attempt to bring her back to reality. And her heart snorted at that, urging the reasoning mind to remember his face as he looked at her in the woods – crumpled with tenderness, open and vulnerable, eyes full of longing and regret; to remember how he froze in her embrace, holding his breath, stunned with their closeness; to remember how he watched her dreamily as she moved around the castle; how he trembled when she touched his hand, and when he held her in his arms after the fall. And she urged her rational part to look at him now – his face transported with yearning and unbelieving bliss, suddenly youthful and beautiful, triumphant and hopeful. 'Does he need to tell me he loves me? Don't I know it from the look in his eyes?' – her heart said. And her reason fell silent, defeated.

There were no words exchanged between them, not questions asked. They rushed into closeness quickly and blindly, as if afraid that even a brief hesitation would sober them, make them see their madness and stop it – and neither of them wanted to stop. He hardly opened his eyes, feeling her way around her body like a blind man – touching it, kissing it, licking it, leaving a burning trail of want wherever he touched her with his hands, lips, or tongue. Yet she kept looking at him, kept watching, in fascination, how different their bodies were – all contrasts of darkness and light, sharpness and softness, youth and age. She looked at his lean limbs, and his bony chest, at his shoulders, at his wiry neck, and his sharp jaw, at his angular dark body, which seemed to be curved out of some precious wood, and she liked it all. Yet she kept seeing, as in flashes, his body and face in some other, different way – less exotic, skin lighter, hair thinner, eyes human. God knew who this man was – a man he was before? A man he would become? A man he really was – a man only she could see? She did not know, and she did not care; the creature he was now was what she wanted. His clawed hands on her breasts looked almost menacing, like he was a beast from some ancient etching depicting a maiden being ravaged by a monster. But she was not ravaged – she was ravished, caressed with great intensity, yet with boundless tenderness – she did wonder how it was possible to be attacked and protected at the same time. She looked at his claws, and wondered that they don't scratch her – wondered how he manages to be so gentle with her tender skin. When he spread her legs open, she froze in sudden fear – surely he wouldn't touch her there with his claws? He looked at her open body for several instants, eyes glazed, breathing rugged, body rigid; and then he ran his palms across her inner thighs, very slowly and gently; and leaned down to kiss her, caressing her with his tongue where his fingers wouldn't dare to, and making her blush and lose her breath – first with embarrassment, and a moment later with guilty, painfully sharp pleasure.

When he moved to take her, she was ready for him – she was open and wet and hot and she didn't even tighten as he rushed in. He moaned as he buried himself in her, overcome with the raw joy of feeling her raw inner flesh with his naked skin. He moaned as he felt her scent change, as he felt blood mingle with milk as she gave him her childhood and her past, and promised him her youth and her future. He paused, there inside her, savoring the moment – the instant when they came together, as they both knew they would. Here, now they became one – they fulfilled the promise she made him; their forever begun now. This was something he would never, never forget, for as long as he lived, despite all the curses he might fall under; this moment, now, as he was taking her, and she kissed his chest, and her thighs rubbed against his, and her hands clutched the bedcovers, and her insides trembled and tightened around him, and she moaned softly, repeating his name, as he breathed out her name, like an ancient incantation: Belle, Belle, Belle, Belle, over and over again, delirious, overcome, spellbound.

He moved inside her, and she moved with him. He kissed her lips, and she kissed him back. He looked into her eyes, and she looked into his, and both knew they were sealing the unbreakable bound between them.

Unnoticed by them, dawn came – the cold moonlight was replaced by the pink and golden glow on the morning sun. Bathed in this light, their bodies glowed too – her creamy-white, his gold-speckled. And, as they moved together, the air around them shimmered with bright sparkles – the golden dust from his skin and hair rose around them with every movement, clouding them in glittering mist, as if they were heroes of the old tale about a captive virgin that made love to a god, who turned into a rain of gold to possess her.

May be this morning glow was the reason he felt himself immersed in light as his release came. May be it was the sun that blinded him, and illuminated his soul, showing him the man he should be – the way he should live. Or may be the girl was his sun.

As they lay in bed entwined, spent and exhausted, both knew they should talk. She resolved to ask him about everything she ever wanted to ask – why he brought her here, who was the child whose clothes she found in one of the upper rooms, why were all the mirrors in the castle covered, what was he, how he felt about her… He resolved to ask her how she felt, whenever she missed her family, what made her come with him, how she felt about her promised 'forever', what she wanted from life, did she love him? Yet now, none of them could speak, and words didn't seem necessary as they embraced, sleepily, her arms around his waist, their legs crossed, her head resting on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in her hair.

They fell asleep, almost at the same time, as the sun rose fully and the first proper ray blasted through the barred window, catching the glitter of the golden dust on the crumpled bed and entwined bodies, and holding the still-airborne flakes of gold dancing in the beam of light.

11


End file.
